Two of a Kind
by KatrinaKaiba
Summary: Brooke Riley had the perfect life. She was a successful author, and her novels were bestseller hits. She had an adoring husband, who cherished and loved her, and supported her 100. Or so she thought...Now with her head all clouded and her trust diminishe
1. Brooke Riley

**Two of Kind**

****

**Rating: T (**I really don't get this new way of rating, but anyway...)

_Might change to M, you have been warned_

**Summary**: Brooke Riley had the perfect life. She was a successful author, and her novels were best-seller hits. She had an adoring husband, who cherished and loved her, and supported her 100. Or so she thought...Now with her head all clouded and her trust diminished toward the fairer sex, can moving to Tashmore Lake, in order to get away from the press' lingering eyes, be a disaster, or the benefactor of a savior?

**Disclaimer: **God, I hate this stupid rule. Where are the writers I'm gonna kill them. I'm only going to write this _once_, since I feel it takes up space and because, no one really reads this thing anyway, except the paranoid creators of (no offence meant) holds up hands in surrender

**I do not own Secret Window, any of its characters, stage props, etc. And I certainly, no matter how many times I wish, own any Johnny Depp character (Mort Rainey, etc), or Johnny Depp himself. If I did, we'd be in my room, sharing a bottle of rum...**

**A/N**This story was once a You/Mort fic, but fanfiction decided to remove my story counts to 10 really slowly. Finally composing myself Anyway, I decided I would change things around a bit and make it an O.C./Mort thingie. And I'm sorry if you think it's a Mary-Sue. If you don't like it, then don't read it. That's my policy. But if you do like, by all means have a ball, by pressing down at that little button at the bottom of the screen and sending my your thoughts and comments. I will however try not to make it too Mary-Sue-ish. If it is, sorry. hold hands together in apology Also, I will accept flames, but be ready to receive and answer from me publicly, and perhaps personally. You've been warned.

**Quote of the Day**

" What do you think it means you ignorant hick, I'm in the middle of a divorce. D-I-V-O-R-C-E. _DIVORCE._"

**Mort Rainey, Secret Window**

Now enough of me ramblin', on to Chapter 1.

_Ch 1_

_Brooke Riley_

"'You left me tattered and torn...just like that sweet Spanish doll.'"

Brooke Riley sat in her midnight blue Cebring (_A/n No idea how to spell)_ Convertible, drumming her long, silver painted, finger tips rhythmically in tune with the music, on her black leather coated steering well, as she inched slowly through the commuting traffic of New Jersey.

The top was down, but was in fact superfluous, because at the snail's pace the car was moving at, and because it was one of those no wind ,1000° days, it really served no purpose.

Fed up, with the heat and the sweating, she pushed the button that pulled the top like and accordion out of its storage, and scaled its way to the front window, where, letting go of the wheel, she latched the top safely shut, and her eyes lingered beneath the radio, and toward the air coolant buttons. Without hesitation, she placed the degrees at 45, and breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the cool air circulate through the vents and land pleasantly on her face.

At least her tank top would stop clinging to her now.

_Well, might as well check out my appearance._

She pulled down the makeshift mirror via her light catcher thingie. She never really knew what those things were called, but she knew that if she ever forgot her sunglasses, like today, she could use that thing to block out the sun.

But looking at her reflection now, she saw that sun had done some damage.

She had forgotten to put on some sun tan lotion (but really who does put that on in the car) and her face had turned an irritated pink, which she only assumed would turn a darker shade, lest she do something about it now. She glanced briefly at her exposed shoulders and collar line, and noticed the familiar color fringing her skin there too.

_Well at least I can work on a tan._

Her hair, was cooperative today, and didn't look to shabby. It was pulled back into a french braid, pulling at the temples, and the stray hairs that usually graced her presence, were well controlled and managed. Or perhaps that was because she became very over-enthusiastic with the hair spray this morning.

Few light freckles, spread sporadically over he skin, mingled with her once pale complexion.

She was more of an indoor type since she had become an author, but she still liked to go for a walk in the sun once in a while.

Her eyes were a dark emerald green; the only real thing she liked about her appearance.

You couldn't really consider her very tall; average most would say. And that was how she saw herself.

Average.

Her body structure, was very shapely, she would reluctantly admit though.

Her hips to her seemed endless, and her bust size was something that she hated, but big breasts were genetic in her family. And her ass...well others said it was rather nice, but then again she was a woman, and brought on with the usual, "Oh man, is my ass too big" cliche.

On the whole, she didn't think she was hideous, but definitely not beautiful. Pretty, maybe. Her husband on the other hand thought she was the most magnificent creature he had ever laid eyes on...

She then slammed her hand on the steering wheel with fury once she was caught at another bout of traffic.

A driver in the next car over, might have believed she was furious and caught up with rage of the never ending traffic, but she had other intentions.

_Ex-_ husband.

She still remembered the day clearly, for it haunted her every single thought when she wasn't thinking of anything else. Her mind made sure of that.

_Four Months Ago_

_"Hey babe, I'm home." she had said as she placed the groceries on the marble kitchen counter, and stepped around toward the living room, but her husband was no where to be seen._

_"Hey Jack." she said as she saw her golden retriever scratching against their bedroom door._

_"Whatcha doin'? You want to go in?" she said in a softer voice, one that dog lovers knew and used all the time, to console their fretting pets._

_He jumped toward her and then back toward the door. Not in an excited way, but one that made her realize that something was wrong._

_"Oh my god...Jake."_

_She pulled open the door, and sure enough it was Jake. But uh, she wasn't expecting the other twist of fate._

_She thought that perhaps he was hurt, you know, cause dogs usually fret and fuss, and put on those adorable puppy eyes and whine, when something is wrong in their house or with their master._

_Well...if Jake was hurt, Cassandra was definitely taking care of that._

Cassandra is, _was_, her publicist. Surprisingly, Brooke fired her after that incident.

One of her best friends, went behind her back, and had an affair with her husband. And he went along with it.

She finally knew that those trips to the lake with the guys and the long evening meetings, were now spent somewhere else.

It still hit her with a shock, and she had stood there for a full minute and half, staring at their sheet wrapped bodies, and the way that he was holding her close to his naked chest, before actually reacting.

_"Oh..."_

_"Brooke."_

_"My..."_

_"B_rooke, please I can explain."

"GOD!" _she screamed and then, not fully thinking, she grabbed the lamp set on the oak bedside table and chucked haphazardly at the all ready thoroughly shocked forms_.

_Exiting impetuously out of their deer-caught-in-a-headlight phase, they both dodged the porcelain lamp, that could have inflicted tremendous damage upon said persons, and Cassandra landed in a heap on the floor amongst their emerald bed sheets._

_She'd have to burn them later._

_"Brooke," Jake said uneasily, awaiting for h_er to throw something else.

_"Don't speak Jake," she said sharply, as she turned back to the heap on her carpeted floor, "Get out of my house."_

_"You can't just-"_

_"I can and I will," she said, interrupting the defying figure, "Now take your clothes, keys, and whatever else you brought with you_, _and remove your person from my house." Surprisingly still calm, she added evenly, when she didn't budge, "Get out or I will kick you out myself."_

_She scurried out of the room with her clothes wrapped tightly in a ball at her side._

_She turned towards Jake, a malicious spark flared in her eyes_.

_"Brooke...say something,"_

_"What would you like me to say? That everything's okay, that it was all just a big misunderstanding? That's what you want to me say, isn't it?"_

_"No...I"_

_"There's nothing you can say Jake, that will change my mind about you, and what I'm about to do."_

_She stood by the door, grasping the handle in her hand, she turned back to him and said, whilst pointing to the hallway, "Out."_

_"What do you mean out?"_

_"I mean go. Leave. Disappear. I never want to see, hear, or know you again."_

_"But-"_

_"Just take you clothes, the ones you were wearing today, and just go."_

_"But what about the rest of my things," he said as he pulled on his jeans._

_"I'm sure Cassandra won't mind if I send it all to her."_

_"Brooke, I-"_

_"Save it. Save it for someone who cares."_

_She glanced down at her feet and said, as tears threatened to consume her._

_"Get out of my life Jake."_

_And he left her and as she heard the door close on its hinge she slid to the floor and wept._

_"Because you just ruined it."_

Four months later and here she was driving to Tashmore Lake, with a moving van ahead of her, and her faithful retriever in the back seat.

She had escaped her old life. The press, the stares, the rumors. She couldn't take it anymore.

So she decided she'd leave it all behind.

She had a new house waiting for her, and she had a new publicist that awaited the new story she planned to write.

The problem was, she couldn't think of one.

_Oh well. Perhaps a change in scenery will change that._ After all, a lot of authors moved a lot for the hope of new inspiration. She couldn't think of any at the moment but, she was sure they did. If not, they were far luckier than she was.

Turning off the ramp that had a sign that said "Welcome to Tashmore Lake!", she couldn't help but feel a little nervous at the prospect of being in a new town. New found fear, she guessed.

After navigating through the town, she noticed it seemed like one of those old fashioned ones that seemed to refuse the modern influences of technology. Sure there were post offices, and a local grocery store, but they all seemed to have a more homely, antebellum, passee kind of character to it. And she liked it.

No press. No noisy city. She began to think she might like it here.

Turning up the road called, "Arsecann" (funny name), she began driving around in search for her moving van, and her new home.

She found the van and she found her new home.

But what she didn't expect to find was a dog and his very handsome master standing on her front lawn.

**A/N What do you think? Go ahead, just press that button and send me a review on what ****you think. Just so you know, I would like at least five reviews so I can write the next chapter. I found another friend of mine doing that, and it worked so I'm asking if you guys could do that same. Thanks in advance me hearties. R&R savvy?**

**Oh yeah and the lyric at the beginning is from a song called "Spanish Doll", written by Poe.**


	2. Morton Rainey

Two Of A Kind

Morton Rainey

It is said that a person can usually tell a lot about another person on how they speak and how they express themselves. In short, their own first impressions. It is said, that in usual discourse, your impression can either be appreciated or scorned. And being a writer, Brooke Riley was usually very keen on first meetings and as the person or persons presented themselves, she would dissect them, and right away would know by how they acted and determined whether to continue the already one-sided conversation.

But she did not, like most of the other encounters, anticipate this one . . .

This rather _pleasant_ one.

Most women, or so I have seen for myself, find that there aren't enough attractive, blood boiling, men, and if they perchance happen upon one, they are either taken or homosexual. She hoped, no, _prayed_, that this one did not qualify for either situation.

She didn't really expect to get with this man upon their first encounter. She was just getting over a most hurried and one-sided divorce, so she wasn't looking for a relationship.

No . . . she just couldn't resist the prospect of talking to one of the gorgeous clan.

After getting over the initial shock of this man on her lawn, she realized that all she could she was the back of his dirty blond head, and furthermore, she assumed that he was staring avidly at her house. Why, She didn't know.

"Hey!" she yelled, not really angrily, just in order to g t his attention.

Well, his attention she had, and she found her lungs punctured like a needle had been pushed through them. As her air was slowly regained, she started a slow pace toward the now curiously staring man and obedient golden retriever lying at his feet, trying to pursue a beetle without having to actually chase him.

His hair, like she saw before, was a dirty blond and accentuated the olive complexion of his skin splendidly. It seemed to have been through the trials and tribulations of attempted grooming. Apparently he gave up, and decided to finger through the tangles, but the effect was still the desired one. A favorite phrase of hers . . . shitty but effective.

He wore a velvet red-collared shirt that he left open to reveal a black T-shirt, tucked into a pair of black jeans leading to a pair of white sneakers with black linings in various parts of the leather. A little foreign to her tank top and denim shorts, but she assumed and felt actually, that it was a lot cooler than that of the traffic induced New Jersey.

As she got closer, she noticed a slight build, not rippling, but pleasant, as he stood there with a hand on his lean hip. His face was sharply chiseled. Not in muscle, but in the hallows that were found in every bone structure, but more of a gaunt presence. His nose was sharply angled and his cheekbones were a feminist high, but seemed to suit him satisfactorily. His eyes were what pleased her most. The orbs, which seemed to float in a creamy white of pure milk, were chocolate colored, and seemed to have the hot quality of a fire's hearth as it beats off your skin after spending a day salvaging through the fierce, barricading forces of an oncoming blizzard. That certain chill you feel when you've discover that perhaps someone's eyes are following you, and causes you to turn abruptly the other way, as a hot blush creeps its way on your face. A chill that creeps into your very heart and jolts it slightly, to see if you're still alive.

"Hello. Pardon my intrusion." He said in greeting with a small smile.

"Oh it's quite all right. I think . . . I mean . . . um."

_Why do I always have to be such a dike when I meet someone?_ She was more frustrated with herself than to analyze whether he was making an adequate impression or not. His smile was enough.

She tried again.

"Um . . . Why exactly are you here?"

He chuckled slightly, a pleasant melodious baritone, and she felt that suspenseful chill jolting her.

"Um. Hi I'm Morton Rainey. You can call me Mort. And the reason I'm here is because I heard that someone was moving into the house that hadn't been occupied for more than 12 years, so curiosity got the better of me, and Jack needed a walk, and I decided to check it out."

"Oh, well, I-I'll be living here. D-Do you live around here?" Brooke asked, as quickly as possible, as if hoping he wouldn't notice her nervous stutter.

"Yeah, through those woods. Maybe even a few blocks if you think in terms of sidewalks." He pointed through a patch of woods, but they were too thick with branches and leaves that you couldn't see anything that he might be pointing at.

"Oh. You walked through that?"

"Oh no, we walked along the street."

"Oh."

Silence issued for a moment, where the both of them watched Jack, and his fruitless attempts with the insect.

"So," Mort interrupted the silence with what seemed like a booming voice, turning his attention once Jack had caught the bastard, "do you have a name, or shall I just guess?" he said with a slight smirk from the left corner of his mouth.

"Oh, yeah. I'm cough . I'm Brooke Riley."

"A beautiful name."

"Yeah well, haven't found any good use with it except to sign papers."

She hadn't intended it to be a joke, but he laughed anyway, seeing past your maybe not

so obvious sarcasm.

"Well Brooke, it was lovely to have met you." She glanced at the long fingered hand outstretched to her.

She held it and then looked at his mouth. Some might say it was poetic.

"My pleasure."

And she let go of his hand. But neither of them could ignore the weird feeling of familiarness . . . of belonging in the simple gesture, and Mort stared in awe after her, as Brooke disappeared into her brand-new house.

"That's very interesting."

Mort then left for his own house, forgetting about Jack. And Jack sensing this, sulked behind from lack of attention.


End file.
